


Summer Adventures

by CleverFangirl



Series: Spells of Interest [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Hogwarts AU, Multi, Quidditch Happens, Spells of Interest, and WEREWOLVES
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6126859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CleverFangirl/pseuds/CleverFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stories from the summer after the most exciting school year Hogwarts has seen in a while.  </p>
<p>Harold and John attend a national level Quidditch match and run into a familiar face. </p>
<p>Shaw meets someone new and unexpected. </p>
<p>Control gets a promotion and realizes she has a problem.</p>
<p>Root goes home for the Summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harold

Harold couldn’t quite believe that he was here.  That his being here had been  _ his _ idea.  Why had he thought this was a good idea?  There were so many people here, and it was so  _ loud _ . 

“Damn, Harold, this is definitely the best birthday present I got this year.”  John Reese was standing next to him, a grin on his face visible even under the American flag pattern he’d painted on earlier in the day.  

Harold put a little more effort into his smile, adjusting his own red white and blue hat--John had suggested he paint his face as well and they’d ended up compromising with this.  “It’s really nothing, John,” he told his friend as they made their way through the crowd outside the stadium.  “My father is very invested in the American team.” His father, head of one of the oldest pureblood families in America, actually had a share of ownership in the team, but Harold felt that was an unnecessary detail to share at the moment.  “He gets tickets to every one of their games.  Honestly, he’ll probably thank you for finally getting me into the sport.”  

John raised his eyebrows doubtfully.  They both knew that Harold had been the one to suggest this event, having written John on May 1st to offer tickets to this game as a present for his 16th birthday.  John just smiled knowingly.  “Well it is good to see you opening yourself to new ideas,” he said somewhat smugly, watching as Harold ducked out of the way of yet another fan of the American team. 

They wandered through the crowds, buying magical flags that played the national anthem when waved, and small little pocketfuls of enchanted fireworks that exploded nonstop for a few minutes when lit.  Every now and then they would catch sight of a Jamaican fan, but for the most part the two groups of Quidditch fans were keeping their distances from each other.  The US had beaten Jamaica by ten points last year in the first round of the tournament for the World Cup, and though the US eventually got third, there’d been bad blood between the countries ever since.  This was the first time the teams had faced off since then, and tensions were high.  

“So, what do you think our odds are today?” Harold asked.  With some study, he knew he could predict with relative accuracy which team would win.  But frankly, he wasn’t  _ that _ interested.  And he knew John would have a pretty good understanding of the teams’ standings without the research.  

John grinned, as though he knew Harold’s somewhat lazy motivations.  “US is gonna win, no doubt,” he said firmly.  

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” said a calm, confident voice behind them.  

Both boys turned around to find a somewhat familiar figure standing near them.  Zoe Morgan was in the process of purchasing a magical US flag from a vendor.  As she handed over her gold, she spoke again, “We had an advantage on them last year, because everyone underestimated our team.  This year they’re much more ready for us.  Jamaica has a good team, they won’t go easy.”

John frowned, unimpressed by the Slytherin girl’s intrusion, and even more annoyed by what she was saying.  “You think we won last year because they underestimated us?”

Zoe smirked, walking over to them and eyeing John’s somewhat ridiculously painted face. “You think the US team won on skill alone?” 

“Now you’re saying the Jamaican team is more skilled?” John demanded, sounding almost personally offended.  

“Did you  _ watch _ the Jamaica-Brazil match?” Zoe asked condescendingly.  “Those kinds of moves don’t just happen accidentally.  Though maybe you wouldn’t know that, being on the Gryffindor team,” she added with a smirk.  

John raised his eyebrows, “And just just is  _ that _ supposed to mean?” He asked with an almost forced calm.  

Zoe shrugged innocently, “Nothing at all.  Just that your team  _ does _ have a tendency to act first and think later.  You play off instincts more than technique.” 

Harold winced slightly at her words.  Aside from someone attacking innocent people, there were few things he  _ knew _ would get John angry.  But insulting his Quidditch team was definitely one of those things.  

Sure enough, John was glaring at the Slytherin Keeper.  “And  _ your _ team tends to play a little dirty,” he commented, keeping his tone even.

“Dirty’s such a harsh word, Reese,” Zoe corrected him smoothly.  “We just make our own advantages every now and then.  It’s not like your team follows all the rules.  I’ve seen you and Shaw spying on our practices before.”

“That’s just gathering intelligence,” John shot back, taking an aggressive step forward.  “Not breaking in-game rules.”

Zoe scoffed, moving farther into John’s space, “Rules were made to be bent.” 

They were very close to each other now, John looking irritated, Zoe looking amused.  Harold, hating to intrude but knowing that the sooner this conversation ended, the less likely it was that a duel would break out, coughed.  Both players looked over at him, apparently having forgotten he was there for a moment.  “Sorry to interrupt,” Harold said politely.  “But I think we should be going, John.  My father suggested we get up to our box half an hour before the game starts.”

John looked at his watch and nodded.  “I guess you’re right,” he agreed, almost reluctantly.  He turned to address Zoe again, “I guess we’ll see who wins.”

Zoe smirked, “I’ll bet you three Galleons it’s Jamaica.” 

“I’ll take that bet,” John said, smirking, too.  The two shook on it, then went their separate ways, John following Harold to the stands.  The crowd was as thick here as it had been in the lower sections of the stadium, but John took advantage of that noise to say to Harold, “Speaking out Hogwarts houses, is the Map inactive during the summer?”

Harold shook his head, “I wouldn’t call it inactive, but the few times I’ve checked it since classes ended, it’s been blank.”  For the first few weeks after he’d arrived home, Harold had switched between obsessively checking the Map every few minutes, and hiding it under a pile of books where he’d never have to look at it.  Trying not to remember the last time it had told him something and he hadn’t seen it.  “It’s uh- it’s not like we can just apparate back to the grounds if there’s danger anyways,” he said quickly.  “Come on, my father’s box should be up these stairs.” 

They took another three flights of stairs to the top of the stadium, entering the VIP box, and finally sitting down next to Harold’s father.

“I was wondered when you boys would get back,” he said, smiling at both of them.  “Glad to see you made it, though.  The mascot shows are just about to start.”

“Thanks again for letting me join you, Mr. Finch,” John said respectfully.  

“Oh no need for that,” Harold’s father replied, waving aside the thanks.  “It was nothing.  Though I do wonder if you boys would be interested in meeting the players after the match.”

The massive smile on John’s face told both Harold and his father that the answer was definitely yes.  Harold allowed himself a small smile as the crowd burst into noise in response to the mascots being led out onto the field.  Yeah, this probably  _ was _ the best birthday present John got this year.  


	2. John

The US team lost.  By over three hundred points.  They had some incredible moves, but the Jamaicans just outflew them.  John knew that he should have been frustrated, watching his favorite team losing by such a large margin, but honestly he was so amazed to be watching a national level Quidditch match live that he was just impressed.  

After the match, Mr. Finch Apparated the three of them back to New York, where he insisted on stopping in Kraken Alley--the East Coast equivalent of Diagon Alley--to pick up some more Floo Powder before sending John home.  Not wanting to bore them, he gave the boys some gold and told them to have fun while he restocked, and he’d meet them outside the apothecary in an hour.  

“I’ll have to admit,” Harold said as they walked through the alley, pursuing the storefronts.  “I was a little surprised when Sameen didn’t demand to come along.  I would have offered her a ticket, of course,” he added quickly.  “But-”

John laughed, “Shaw’s not home anyways, Harold.”

“She’s not?” Harold asked curiously.

John shook his head, stopping to appreciate the new broom on display in the Quidditch store--The Aerobolt was apparently the world’s fastest broom now.  “No, our mom sent her to Summer Camp for the month.” He smirked, “ _ Muggle _ Summer Camp.  She thought it’d be good for Shaw to get away and spend some time in nature.  Away from all the magic.  But she can’t fly there,” he shook his head, “She’s going to  _ kill _ when she finds out I got to go to this match.”  

Harold smiled somewhat uncomfortably, probably wondering if  _ he _ was going to be the one Shaw would kill.  Then another thought seemed to occur to him, “She’s gone for a month?” He asked, genuinely concerned, “But won’t that-”

John already knew that he was asking, “She’s leaving a few days early so nothing happens,” he explained quickly.  “Mom picked the timeframe and the camp program to make sure she wouldn’t have to miss much, though.” 

“That’s very considerate of her,” Harold said politely.  “So are you going to be practicing your flying over the Summer?”

John nodded, “Yeah there are some woods behind our house where we like to fly.  The trees block us from view as long as we don’t get too high.”  The Reese family lived in the outskirts of a suburb of the city.  His parents had chosen a house with enough privacy to practice their magic whenever they like without attracting attention, but was still close enough to the city to make transportation to their security firm’s city office easy and convenient.  He chuckled, “Dad kind of freaked out when Shaw was nine and demanded her own broom. Our mom kind of handled the company business more when we were kids, so he had to take her out to the woods and make sure Shaw didn’t fly too high.  And you know how Shaw can be with being told not to do something.

“He only had to call Mom home to do a Memory Charm twice in that year.  At least as far as I was told,” he added as an afterthought.  Then he shook himself, looking at Harold, “So what do you want to buy with the gold your dad gave us?” He asked. 

Harold looked at him somewhat apprehensively, “I suppose a nice book is out of the question?”

John smiled widely, “I think I saw signs for a prank shop at the end of the street.  Let’s go see what’s on sale there.”

Harold sighed, but followed John through the crowded street.  Together the boys strolled through the aisles of the New York establishment of Zonko’s Joke Shop.  John selected a few dungbombs, along with several packages of Dr Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks.  Harold, for his part, bought a few sugar quills but otherwise left the purchase decisions to his friend.  

With their spoils in hand, the boys left for the apothecary where they met with Mr. Finch.  He treated them to a late dinner at a nearby pub before giving John a handful of Floo Powder and gesturing towards the open fireplace--that had seen plenty of foot traffic while they’d been eating--and saying that John was a nice young man and he hoped to see him again over the Summer.   

John thanked Harold and his dad one last time for the fantastic birthday present and agreed that he would enjoy doing this again sometime.  Then he stepped into the fire and walked out into his home.  

He’d barely taken two steps before a massive ball of fur threw itself at him, sending both of them sprawling on the floor.  “Oh  _ Bear _ ,” John sputtered through his dog’s best efforts to lick the rest of his facepaint off.  “Come on, get off.   _ Get off _ ,” he said again, playfully shoving Bear away.  He sat up and wiped his face, noticing for the first time the laughter in the room around him.

“He ran all the way down from your room to here the moment he heard the fire start,” Mr. Reese commented, idly turning the page of his newspaper.   

“Good to know he cares,” John spluttered, giving the dog another friendly shove.  

His dad laughed, and folded up his paper.  He leaned forward in his armchair.  “So,” he asked, interestedly.  “How was the match?”

John didn’t even try to stifle his grin.  “It was  _ amazing _ .  Harold’s dad had some of the best seats in the stadium.  We lost, but then I got to go actually  _ meet the team _ .  It was the best birthday present ever.”  

“Oh good,” Mr. Reese sighed.  “Glad to hear that all of my efforts over the years have amounted to nothing.”

“ _ Jim _ , be nice,” Mrs. Reese said not unkindly as she entered the room.  She smiled at John.  “I’m glad you had fun, John,” she said, ruffling his hair.  

“I had way more than fun,” John asserted, eyes alight. “I’ve got to go get my broom.  There are some moves I saw that I  _ need  _ to try.”  

He was halfway up the stairs towards his room when his mom shouted up at him, “By the way, John, you got an owl while you were out!  It’s been in your room for nearly an hour!”

“Okay, thanks!” John replied, though his pace slowed somewhat in his confusion.  An owl?  Who’d be sending him an owl?  Harold had been with him all day until a few minutes ago, and Shaw can’t send owls while she’s at camp.  Who else did he know in the wizarding world well enough for them to send him an owl?

John’s question was answered a few moments after he entered his room and pulled the letter off the leg of the regal owl perched on his nightstand.  He didn’t recognize the elegant handwriting on the parchment, but he realized who it was from the instant he read the message.  

_ Told you Jamaica would win.  Did you catch the strategy that they used against the US?  They had a plan and they followed it through (unlike that ridiculous attempt at an attack our beaters tried). _

_ Also, my owl isn’t going to leave until she gets my three galleons.  So I suggest  you pay up.  She bites when she’s kept waiting.   _

“Damnit Zoe,” John muttered, pulling his hand out of her owl’s reach just at it nipped at him.  Fuming, he fished in his pocket and pulled out three galleons, putting them in a pouch to tie to the bird’s leg.  But he stopped just before he tied it on, then looked at the owl.  “Wait one second,” he said, then ran to his desk and quickly scrawled out a letter to Zoe.  

_ Fine, you won this bet.  But how could you think that the beaters’ move was ridiculous?  They clearly meant to “fail” that move in order to boost the Jamaican team’s confidence.  That way they underestimated the beaters for the rest of the game.  How did you miss that? _

He stuffed the letter into the pouch with the gold, and before he could stop to consider what he was doing, he’d tied it to Zoe’s owl, and sent it off.  

Then he grabbed his broom and ran downstairs and outside, determined to perfect the exact move Zoe Morgan had called “ridiculous.” 


	3. Shaw

“I am in hell,” Shaw muttered to herself as the crowd around her started yet another rousing round of “She’ll be Comin ‘Round the Mountain” while huddling around the bonfire.  This was the third night in a row that her cabin-mates had dragged her from her bunk to join them at the nightly campfire sing-along with the rest of the campers and counselors.  

Shaw had only gone the first time because of the promise of s’mores.  And she’d tried to slip away as soon as she’d eaten her fill of chocolate and marshmallows, but  _ Vanessa Watkins _ had dragged her into the singing circle and forced her to say there all night.  Now Vanessa was determined to drag Shaw along to  _ every single one _ for the rest of the month.  And Shaw had already been forced to promise Mrs. Reese that she wouldn’t--purposefully--hurt anyone while at camp.  But maybe if she could make it look like an accident...

Shaw shook her head as one of the counselor’s pulled out their guitar and began strumming.  “Just kill me now,” she groaned.

“Having fun?” Asked a low voice behind her.  

Shaw didn’t jump at the sudden voice when she  _ knew _ no one had been behind her a second ago.  She didn’t react at all, just calmly turned around and looked up at the tall guy who was smirking at her.  “The best,” she said dryly.  

“Song’s not your style?” He asked with a smirk, stepping a little closer so he was beside her rather than behind.  “Or maybe the dark woods are spooking you?”

Shaw scoffed, “Please.”  As if something as simple as the  _ dark _ would scare her.  This was tame compared to the last time she’d found herself in a forest, shooting curses and spells at a group of criminally inclined wizarding students, throwing Fusco to the ground to protect them both from Root’s tasing spell.  

She felt a scowl grow on her face at the thought of the Slytherin girl, and turned her glare back towards the campfire.  

The guy next to her apparently noticed her scowl.  “Or maybe you’re just not a people person,” he suggested in a faux-wise voice.  He shrugged, “Probably for the best.  If you’d  _ been _ a people person, I wouldn’t have wanted to talk to you.” 

Shaw raised her eyebrows, “And why  _ do _ you want to talk to me?”  It was a fair question.  At school, at home, here at camp, it was pretty constant that people  _ didn’t _ want to talk to Shaw.  If anything, this was a fact she was proud of.  

And maybe this guy knew that somehow, because he just smiled at her and said, “Because you look interesting.” 

Shaw couldn’t put her finger on it but there  _ was _ something interesting about him, too.  Something about him felt... familiar.  Plus he was pretty damn hot.  She didn’t quite make a conscious decision to do so, but she extended her hand to him with a smirk, “I’m Shaw.”

He took it, and held onto her hand just a moment too long.  “Tomas,” he introduced himself.  Then he looked around skeptically, “You done here?”

Shaw nodded, “Hours ago.” 

He nodded to the path that would lead them back to the main camp, “I bet I can get us into the kitchens.”

“I like the sound of that,” Shaw muttered, leading the way back through the woods, past the cabins, and to the mess hall.  

It took Tomas four minutes with a paperclip and a bobby pin--that he apparently always kept in his pocket--to get the door to the kitchen open.  Shaw knew that she could have gotten it open a lot faster of she’d used the wand stashed in her pocket, but that would have led to a few complicated issues that Shaw would prefer to not deal with.  Besides, it was pretty impressive that Tomas casually knew how to pick a lock.  

He’d apparently done this before, too, as he led her right to the freezer that held the ice cream.  They spent the next hour preparing the biggest ice cream sundaes either of them had seen, then devouring them enthusiastically.  

Tomas finally set his spoon down, leaning back on his perch atop one of the, and looked across at Shaw, impressed.  “You had at least two more scoops than I did, and I’m stuffed.”  He shook his head in wonder, “I’ve never seen a girl with your appetite before.”

Shaw shrugged, “It’s good ice cream.”

“That it is,” He agreed, chuckling.  He watched Shaw eat a few more spoonfuls of ice cream, then commented, “I can see your wand in your pocket, you know.”

“If your next question is about whether I’m happy to see you, you’re gonna be disappointed,” Shaw muttered.  Then she stopped, “Wait, you’re a wizard?”

Tomas smirked, “And you’re a witch.”

Shaw let that sink in for a moment, then shrugged.  It somehow made sense that the most interesting guy at camp was a wizard.  She looked at him a bit closer, “But I’ve never seen you before.  Don’t tell me you’re one of those homeschooled kids.”

Tomas shook his head, “Durmstrang.” Shaw raised her eyebrows and he elaborated.  “It’s a long ways away, but it’s something of a family legacy.”

“Really?” Shaw didn’t bother to hide her interest.  The northern school of magic had always fascinated her, from their insanely good Quidditch reputation to their more hands on approach to Defense Against the Dark Arts.  If Tomas went to Durmstrang, she had at least a few questions for him.  And her first was clearly the most important, “What’s the food like there?”

Tomas laughed.  “It’s pretty good.  Not much compared to what they serve you at Hogwarts, I hear,” he added humbly.  “But we still make do.”  

Shaw nodded.  She’d more or less expected  _ that _ answer.  Now she could ask the second most important question on her mind, “Do you play Quidditch?”

She saw the way his eyes lit up at the question and knew before he said anything that the answer was yes.  “I’m a Chaser,” he said, leaning forward a little with interest.  “You?”

“Beater,” she replied with a smug grin.  

“Of course you are,” Tomas chuckled. 

Shaw glared, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he assured her.  “Are you any good?”

“Better than you, I’d bet,” she stated proudly.  

He blinked, almost affronted, “I highly doubt that.  We’re very competitive at Durmstrang.”

“Uh huh,” Shaw was disbelieving.  “You don’t even have houses to compete between, how do you even decide who’s on what team?”

He rolled his eyes.  “We make our  _ own _ teams,” he explained patiently.  

“So you play with your friends?” 

He shrugged, “Yeah, mostly.  My team, The Hole in the Wall, we’ve known each other forever-”

“That’s a stupid name,” Shaw offered offhandedly.  “And you can’t have a good Quidditch team with just your friends.  You need the  _ best _ of each skill set.” 

Tomas looked at her curiously, “Are you saying you don’t like any of your teammates?”

“I don’t like anyone really,” she replied.  

“No kidding.”  Tomas laughed, leaning back on the counter, “Man what are the odds though?  I mean, two wizarding kids meeting up at a Muggle camp is crazy enough, but two  _ werewolves _ -”

“What?” Shaw snapped, putting her bowl down suddenly.  “Are you-?”

“One too?”  Tomas finished with a knowing grin.  “Here,” he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal long jagged scars along his upper arm.  “I was bitten four years ago, exploring the mountains around Durmstrang.”  He hesitated a second, looking like he was about to say--or ask--something, then seemed to think better of it, staying quiet.  

Shaw stared for a minute at his scar, processing this new information.  She was almost surprised to find that she  _ wasn’t _ surprised.   Of course he was a werewolf too.  She’d known there was something familiar, something  _ appealing _ about him, but she hadn’t been able to place it until just now.  Slowly, she pulled up her shirt until her stomach was visible.  She watched Tomas’s eyebrows raise as she revealed to him not one, but three separate bite marks along her torso.  She could see the question forming on his lips and spoke before he could ask anything.  “I was seven,” she said shortly.  “It was a pack.”

She waited then, for the rest of his questions.  He had to have questions, everyone had questions.   She could count the number of people who knew about her condition on her fingers--John, his parents, the staff at Hogwarts, and most recently, Harold Finch--and they all had questions.  She could see it in their eyes when they looked at her.  Knowing so much about their shared condition, Tomas must have even more questions for her.  So she waited.

Finally, he set down his bowl and jumped off the counter.  “Come on, let’s go back to my cabin.” 

Shaw looked at him, somewhat surprised, somewhat impressed.  This guy didn’t mess around, did he?  Well, that  _ would _ be better than questions, she thought to herself.

As if he could read her mind, he smiled smugly.  “I wanna see you fly,” he clarified.  

“You brought your broom?” She asked in disbelief.  “To a  _ Muggle _ camp?”

“No, of course not,” he waved his hand, then offered her his hand.  “I brought  _ two _ .”

Shaw saw the challenge in his eyes and felt the hum of a challenge begin to thrill through her.  She took Tomas’s hand without any hesitation.  “You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” she commented.

He grinned, “You know, Shaw.  I think my Summer just got a whole lot more interesting.”


	4. Control

Professor Control looked around the Headmaster’s--or well,  _ Headmistress’s _ \--office with a satisfied smile.  Everyone at the school had known for months that Counsel was getting the sack.  And though it had been just as clear that the Minister would be offering her the position--after all the useful information she’d provided the Aurors over the years, how could she not get it?-- she’d finally been contacted in an official statement to ask if she would do the school the service of taking on the position of Headmistress.  She had, of course accepted.  

But the offer had come at a stipulation, as these offers always do.  The Minister had commented on  her incredible ability to gather intelligence from her students without them knowing.  He didn’t know her sources--and he’d said himself that he didn’t  _ want _ to know how she knew what she knew--but her intel always proved true.  She’d averted more disasters with her quiet tips to the Aurors than anyone but those possessing the highest level of Ministry clearance would ever know.  She’d been offered this position on the condition that her information remain good and frequent.  

And therein lay her problem.  Ever since Summer had started, Control had offered no new information.  Right now, she could blame the Summer holiday, and her lack of students, but when classes started again she would find herself in a sticky situation.

Because she no longer had her source.  The page that she’d torn from a book in the Restricted Section of the library--an unusual volume titled  _ The Machine _ that she knew possessed exceptionally magical properties but still could not locate the source of--had stopped feeding her information. 

For the better part of two years, ever since she’d found that book in the library late one evening and read a name in it--a name that had turned out to be that of a dark wizard planning on attacking the Muggle Parliament later that week--this page had been giving her information that she investigated, and--if it seemed interesting or important--she passed on to the Ministry.  But now, for some strange reason, the page was remaining blank.  She hadn’t received a name in over a month, and when she’d gone to the library last week to inspect the Book further, she’d found an empty space in the shelf.  The Book was gone.  Her source of information had been moved, or removed, leaving her high and dry just when the Minister decided to make clear how much that information was depended upon.  

So she needed to find a new source, and fast.  

She left her new office, closing the door firmly behind her.  

Greer and Claypool would likely take to the assignment well.  


	5. Root

“Are you sure that’s gonna be enough for you, Sam?”  Kathy asked, eyeing Root’s purchases doubtfully as she scanned them.  The small basket of groceries she’d been handed wouldn’t feed very many people for very long.

But Root just smiled at the elderly woman who owned the only grocery store in the small town of Bishop, Texas.  “Yes, Kathy, I’ll be fine.  I’m only home for a few days, anyways.”

Kathy raised her eyebrows, “Really?  Where have you been this Summer, Sam?  I feel like I’ve hardly seen you at all.”

Root nodded, excited.  “I’ve been travelling,” She explained, digging into her backpack for her money.  “Uncle Thornhill’s been taking me along on his business trips.”

“Ah, well that’s very kind of him,” Kathy commented, but Root saw the slightly disapproving frown that twitched her lips at the mention of Root’s reclusive uncle.  “Now I hope he’s watching after you while dealing with his business,” she added sternly.  It ain’t safe for a girl like you to be left by yourself in all kinds of busy places.”

Root slung her backpack over her shoulders again, feeling the comfortable weight of  _ The Machine  _ on her back.  She smiled warmly at Kathy, “Oh don’t worry.  I’ve got someone looking out for me.” 

Kathy gave a little nod, relieved that Root’s somewhat mysterious uncle wasn’t completely incompetent when it came to caring for his niece.  Not that Root actually  _ had  _ an uncle named Thornhill.  The name itself had only been known around Bishop for a year and a half, ever since the funeral.  

Towards the end of Root’s second year at Hogwarts, she’d received a letter--sent via Muggle post--from her Aunt Helen, telling her that her mother was very sick.  Root had, of course, been allowed to leave school early and return to Texas.  She travelled by plane so as not to raise suspicion among her Muggle relatives.  No one in Root’s family was magic, or even knew that magic existed.  Both of Root’s parents were Muggles, along with all of her extended family, and if she suddenly appeared in her home a few moments after learning about her mother’s illness, Aunt Helen and Uncle Daniel would certainly have some questions.  

And they’d had enough questions when they’d picked her up from the airport.  

“So is there a nice young man in your life yet, Samantha?”

“What are you learning in that fancy-pants foriegn school of yours?”

“Honestly Samantha, how  _ could _ you leave all the way to England with your mother’s health being as uncertain as it’s been all year?”

“You know, should your dear mother ascend to Heaven to rest with our Lord, you’ll be living with us, Samantha, and I don’t know how I’d feel sending you off to some school I know nothing about.”

After two hours in the car with them, Root knew that she could never,  _ ever _ , live with them.  

She tried to keep the thought out of her head, though.  At least until they got to the hospital and she saw her mother.  But the moment she walked into the hospital room, she knew.  Her mother was dying, and there was nothing the doctors, or Root, or anyone, could do about it.  As she sat down next to the bed, one of the nurses quietly told her that her mother probably only had a few days left.  

Root spent those next few days in the hospital, holding her mother’s hand because she knew that’s what she should do.  Every night, when visiting hours ended, Aunt Helen and Uncle Daniel would take her home with them.  As soon as they arrived, Root would lock herself in the guest room they’d given her.  They likely assumed she spent her evenings crying, or trying to get adjusted to the idea of coming home from England to live here permanently.  

Root had actually been putting all of her time and effort into making sure that didn’t happen.  

She could do nothing to save her mother, but she’d be damned--probably literally, in this household--if she had to live here until she turned eighteen.  

It took some complex magic, a late night trip to a nearby city, and breaking into a few buildings to alter some records, but by the time Root held on tight to her mother’s hand and watched the light leave her eyes, she knew that she’d be safe to continue practicing her magic however she wanted to, without the threats of hellfire and damnation and never leaving Texas again being thrown at her.  As the doctors took her mother’s body away, Root handed Uncle Daniel a letter she’d received from her Uncle Thornhill, who claimed he wished to take Root on as his ward.  

It turned out that Uncle Thornhill was actually listed as Root’s closest living relative, and he had plenty of money with which to provide for her, and the actor that Root hired to portray Uncle Thornhill at her mother’s funeral did such a fantastic job portraying sincere concern for her well-being that at the end of the month, Root was secure in her own home (willed to her by her mother), free of the threat of her aunt and uncle, with a small stash of inheritance money that she could easily duplicate and use, claiming it to be money provided by her benevolent uncle.  

The money, of course, had no real value, but Muggles wouldn’t notice the difference, and by the time it made its way to the Magical Congress, it would be impossible to trace back to her.  

It was this fake money that she handed over to Kathy to pay for the groceries she needed for the week.  The same money she’d been using to support herself whenever she was home as she lived alone this past year.  School had ended over a month ago, but Root had barely been home for more than a few days.  Practically every morning she would wake to find the name of a different location written in the book for her.  She’d travel there--normally by magical means--and do whatever the Book told her to do.  Just last week she’d broken into a Dark Wizard’s house and stolen a rare amulet.  She didn’t know what it was, but she knew that it was important.  It had to have been worth the Killing Curse that missed her by an inch.  A curse she knew the Book could have warned her about if only she’d been able to open it and read its warnings while on the move.  

“I don’t like it,” Root commented idly as she pulled the Book open later that day, having returned home and put away her groceries.  “I don’t like when you can’t talk to me.  I want to help you, but it only makes sense for you to help me like I know you can.”

The page remained blank for a moment, then glowing blue ink scrawled out,  _ Go get everything _ .  

Root looked at the page curiously, then went up to her room and retrieved the small back of items that she’d acquired at the Book’s behest.  She laid them all out the table in front of the thick volume--the amulet, some herbs, an old spell book, and something that looked like incense.  Root had no idea what any of these items were, but the Book pointed her to a specific page in the old spell book and as soon as she read through the complicated spell before her, she understood.  

“Oh you  _ are _ clever,” she purred, pulling the amulet towards her.  

Two hours later, Root sat, completely exhausted, in a mist of incense and smoke that sparked and crackled around her.  The spell had taken longer than she’d thought, but as she held the amulet in her hand, and watched the light blue light pulsating from within it, she knew she’d succeeded.  

Carefully, reverently, she placed the chain around her neck and waited.  

Barely a second had passed before glowing blue letters appeared in thin air to spell words that she knew only she could see.  

_ Now the work begins.   _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! This isn't the official sequel that I've been working on, but it does set up a lot of things that I've got planned. With school and all, progress on the real sequel (Magic is Might, if you want a title) is going slow. I'm about halfway through it at 33 chapters, but I'm not going to start posting until it's finished and edited, so don't expect to see it go up before Summer starts. In the meantime I hope you enjoy these smaller stories!


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